All or Nothing
by Tsume Yuki
Summary: Reborn as a halfblood in 1920s France, I panicked. Grindelwald was coming, and there was only one place that would be safe. Hogwarts. And I'd do anything to make it past twenty this time around. Self Insert.
1. Prologue-Sinner

**All or Nothing**

**_Prologue_****  
**_Sinner  
1\. A person who sins (without repenting)_

Am I a bad person?

I've asked myself this countless times, nearly every year of my life if I had to guess. I suppose the question has evolved now though, changed as I have throughout the years. The correct question, I think, would be 'do I care if I am a bad person?'

From that, I assume you can guess what kind of life I've lived so far, can probably take a stab in the dark about the kind of things I've done.

I wasn't always like this. A lifetime ago, I had a family that loved me very much, two parents, two siblings. It was a simple life, a peaceful life. I was never in any danger, never had to watch another family member die, never had to see illness take anyone from me.

I still didn't make it to twenty.

Oh, I was close, four days from my birthday in fact. It was a simple case of wrong place, wrong time. Stood on the pavement on the left side of the road instead of the right. Let out of a lecture ten minutes early to enjoy the summer sunshine. A flash of sleek red and that was it.

Blunt force trauma to the body, swelling brain with copious amounts of blood in there too, broken ribs that ended up puncturing a lung, organs rupturing...

Well, you get the idea hopefully. It was not a pretty sight I guess, but by that point, I was already dead. Four days off of twenty, and that'd been the end of my short life.

Then, then a miracle happened. I was born again. Born in a world I'd only ever read about in books, but with my memories of my past life completely intact, still housed within my head. I didn't realize it until I was about a year old, didn't come to accept it until I was three.

But when I was no older than a day, I made myself a promise. A promise that I would live past twenty this time.

No matter what.

I knew I'd have to do some unsavoury things to ensure my survival. For certain I know that if the innocent teenager of my previous life saw what I had become, she'd probably have wished that car had been the end, that she'd never have to become this. It's not the kind of lifestyle you desire.

Before my death, my only goal had been to find a nice guy, get a good job, get married, and pop out a few children to dote over. And in a way, it's still my goal, one of them. I'll get around to it.

Eventually.

Maybe when my hands don't feel so dirty anymore...

In both lives I've made mistakes, but my mistakes here had a far bigger impact. Some ended badly for me, most ended badly for other people.

Perhaps the worst is that some of the horrible things that happened to others was a result of the choices I made. Decisions I'd made while knowing the outcome, knowing the result that would come about. People have died because I've opened my mouth to either agree or disagree, and while I personally hadn't seen to it that the light left their eyes, I had led some to their deaths with a smile.

Maybe that was worse.

Am I unhinged? Perhaps. Am I a bad person? That depends on which side of the line you stand on, where your morals come to rest in this world. Dark, Light, it doesn't matter to me.

The most important thing is that I am alive.

Some may think I'm a bad person because of that, some may say otherwise. But when it comes down to it, I am just another human being on the face of the world.

And I will do what I must to survive that little bit longer.

* * *

**This is probably going to be the darkest thing I've ever wrote. Not that it'll have rape or anything in, but it might have torture in, will certainly have some death, mind games, manipulation, blood and violence. Eventually. **

**Tsume  
xxx**


	2. Deserter

**All or Nothing**

**_Deserter_**_  
1\. A disloyal person who betrays or deserts his cause or religion or political party or friend etc.  
2\. (military) a person who abandons their duty _

x

The sixth of July, 1926 saw the French Finance Minister Joseph Caillaux speaking before the Chamber of Deputies in the muggle world, outlining the severity of France's economic problems and asking for emergency powers to address them. Seeing as not even a decade had passed since the First World War, it was clear that the muggles were still suffering from the after effects.

There had been some impact in the wizarding world, if I remember correctly, but nothing so problematic. It was only years later that we found out that Grindelwald had used WWI as a smoke screen to kill off as many muggles as he possibly could in the time frame given, not ready for the world to acknowledge him as a true threat yet.

My parents wouldn't know anything about the outside world on this date though, especially not the muggle one. Their focus, on this day, was upon my mother's swollen stomach. Or rather, what was about to come out of it.

At eleven minutes past two on a warm summers afternoon, I was born in the small town of Louviers, in North-Western France. Benjamin and Odette Labelle welcomed me into the world with pleasantly tired smiles.

They owned a small wizarding townhouse, slotted into the main street, three stories high but charmed so that it only appeared to be two floors to the muggles. This meant only those with magic in their blood could see the top floor, in which all sorts of magical things went on. Only my father and I could go up there. My mother was a muggle, but she loved my father and I more than any other thing in the world.

.

I passed through my first year in a daze. Nothing was making sense, I had only partial awareness while my infant brain grew, adjusting to all of the thoughts, all of the feelings that were whipping about my skull. I spent most of my time crying, no doubt making both of my parents regret their decision to have a child with those long nights they spent awake.

There wasn't one lone moment where I suddenly opened my eyes and knew everything that was happening; awareness returned slowly to me.

Like a progression of levels, perhaps comparable to dreaming. There were some dreams that you could only get a faint feeling for, some dreams where you had a vague understanding of what was happening, then some dreams that feel almost like real life. The kind where you're not sure where it ended and when you woke up.

That's what it was like for me, waking up in an infant body that could crawl and babble on command with no additional options. I wasn't even potty train yet.

When my mind accepted the situation as something other than a dream, I handled everything in a mature manner. I took stock of what needed to be done. First and most importantly of all was potty training. That was a key issue that I was aware enough to be embarrassed of. I still wasn't fully cognised to my situation beyond figuring out the short term problems.

It only really hit home three months after my birthday.

My grasp of the French language was tenuous at best, having only sat through two years of study during my preteen years, in which it had been more of a chore to complete than something useful to learn. Deep regret bubbled within my stomach at that idea; I could barely understand a word of what my parents were saying. I knew the basics so far, two greetings, how to say I was hungry, and my name.

Colette.

After hearing the name thrown around a few times, I'd learnt that it was in fact my own, given the fact it was used whenever my new parents addressed me.

Colette Anne Labelle.

I knew my full name because that was what my mother had screamed upon seeing the mess that I had accidentally created. I'd been aiming for a small peach sat on the edge of the fruit bowl, but in my haste to grasp at the peachy delight I'd toppled the entire side table instead, throwing all of the contents of the fruit ball to the floor. Normally this wouldn't be a problem, but the exceedingly heavy metal bowl had fallen upon the vast majority of what it had once contained, splattering the floor, the wall and my front with half mashed fruit. It was not pleasant, and so frustrated at my own inability to do anything right, I'd began crying.

Which was about the same time something within me had rumbled through my limbs like thunder, the lamp across the room exploding into thousands of pieces, a downpour of glass scattering across the floor.

My father had praised me for my accidental magic, rushing to the fireplace once he had fixed all of the problems present with a lazy flick of his wand.

My mystified gaze had followed him as he left the room, my mother still shaking slightly from where she was now sat on the floor.

Her long blonde hair fell around her face in perfectly straight lines, fanning across her breasts and coming to rest just at her forearms. Startled hazel eyes locked on my form, and it was very uncomfortable. My new mother was a very beautiful woman, though that wasn't to say my older mother hadn't been. She had just been dark hair and blue eyes, while this one was fair haired and with sparkling hazel eyes. The kind that almost leaned towards gold.

I'd been exceedingly disappointed, looking in the mirror to find the dark chocolate brown of Benjamin Labelle set into my own face. Mother's hair could be likened to the colour of champagne fizz, while my own was more like chardonnay, where her's fell straight mine fell in the same curls that Father had.

Unsettled by the sharp hazel eyes that refused to leave my form, I'd stumbled to my feet, chubby toddler legs wobbling as I toddled after the direction my father had gone in. The stairs were something I'd recently mastered, and was not something my parents liked me using without supervision, but that didn't stop me from pulling myself up after the man, desperate to know what was going on. I'd been so focused on relearning the basics, training this body up to once again have something that would respond as I required it to, that I'd paid little to no attention to the outside world.

Father caught me halfway up the stairs, and he didn't even seem upset. Instead, he plucked me up and presented me to some distant relation.

That was in the green flames in our fireplace.

.

Accepting I was in the world of Harry Potter was hard. I had passed my third birthday, with three incidents of accidental magic beneath my belt, before I finally accepted it for what it was.

Neither of my parents spoke English, so I wrote down every incident, every connection that appeared in my life.

The floo network had been a pretty big clue, as were the spells that Father used. Mother was a muggle, that much I could make out from the way she'd reacted to my accidental magic. Owls delivered Father's morning newspaper, I realized as soon as I could wake early enough in the morning to notice such a thing. The pictures moved. The portraits on the third floor spoke.

It was all crushing evidence that brought me to my ultimate conclusion. I was in the world of Harry Potter.

A world were two words could end a life, where death was as simple as a flick of the wrist.

Panic surged through my veins when I finally managed to get my hands on a newspaper and notice the date. I wasn't advanced enough to read French yet, not beyond a few words from my children's picture books, and certainly didn't know what the months of the year were called. But I didn't need that information.

All I needed to do was look at the little numbers printed after the writing. 1929.

In a decade I would be thirteen.

In a decade, World War Two would begin, and France would become a battle ground.

One thought ran through my head, louder than all the others.

I had to get out of here.

Civilians died in war, civilians died in crossfire, enemy fire, were taken prisoner and tortured for information. Women were especially weak in this area. I wouldn't allow that to happen to me. I needed to get out of this place, out of the country. That much was clear.

It was only then, looking down at the black words inked onto a dull white page, that another thought stuck me.

Grindelwald.

Grindelwald would be coming, would be tearing through Europe in a few short years. Even if my family managed to ignore the muggle war, they would be dragged into this one. I couldn't remember any factual information, but a sinking feeling in my stomach told me that France would be under attack on two different fronts, that it would be under attack by both muggles and magical.

I would die if I remained here, I could almost see it. It wouldn't be a painless death either, probably just as bloody as my last. Maybe it'd take longer for me to die from my wounds this time. No.

I needed to get out of the country.

For that, I needed to get strong enough to do so.

.

From then on, I started training my magic.

Once I was aware, once I had recognised it's existence and accepted it for what it was, I could no longer ignore it. Always there, thrumming around my veins, all of it coiled beneath my skin, tense and ready to spring into action if only I would just will it so.

The first few attempts were a disaster. I either passed out, or blew something up. I learnt French, both written and spoken, as fast as I could, I tore through the books on magical theory, an English to French dictionary by my side. Father had been surprised when I asked him to buy me the book when we went to France's answer to Diagon Alley. He had resisted at first, but I had played the tried and true method that led to me getting what I wanted.

I sat down in the shop and screamed. I screamed until my throat protested, till tears trickled down my cheeks and until everyone was watching.

I'd gotten the book, and as soon as we were out of sight, I'd been smacked on the arm for embarrassing my father in front of such a crowd. Punishment for children was a lot looser in the past I'd found. In my previous life the only meals I'd ever been denied were when I denied myself, but I'd been sent to bed without tea several times already in this life at the age of five. I'd been cuffed around the head and this was the second smack on the arm I'd gotten so far.

It wasn't that my parents abused me.

No, they loved me more than anything. It was just the norm in this time, this was how children were dealt with. Until very recently, children had been about being seen, not heard. My parents were actually very liberal with me, they were as good to me as my other ones had been.

And I was grateful for it.

But I just didn't have the same connection with them. Perhaps it was because I was not really a child, that these people had not really raised me from a babe. Instead, they'd just been the caretakers of this body, while it was still exhibiting weakness.

They still were actually, considering I couldn't really go off into the world like this. It was strange, as a student, I'd been terrified of what was to come next. It had been my goal to become a teacher and a wife, to become a mother. But getting to that stage, the transition between student and stable life had frightened me more than anything.

More than once I'd wished to go back to my childhood, to right the wrongs I'd made and fix my life to become better than what it had been. But now that I was redoing my childhood, I could not wait for independence to be thrust upon me. I was desperate to be in control of my own life once again.

Perhaps it was the promise of magic, the energy beneath my skin whispering sweet nothings into my mind, but it was what I wanted.

.

Upon my seventh birthday, I had progressed to the point where I could levitate things with the flick of a hand, set things on fire, and then control the direction of the flames.

That was three years of progress.

It seemed woefully little when summed up like that. Days of study, days of trying to force the magic from my veins, willing it out through my skin instead of through a focal like Father did. I would never be able to do too much with wandless magic, the idea was ludicrous.

But little things like this may one day save my life, so I would keep it up.

I had started school two years before, attending a small church that doubled as a schoolhouse on weekdays. They called me a genius, but I was just an adult wearing the skin of a child. It was only my French which was still considered rudimentary in the eyes of the adults, that stopped me from needing to attend school altogether. My parents were proud, Father stating that I could be the best student to ever attend Beauxbatons.

That was the first time that I'd enquired about possibly going to Hogwarts instead. I had made it unmistakably clear that I was fascinated with England, and could I maybe please go there to study magic instead of Beauxbatons.

Father had frowned and insisted that we would speak of it come my tenth year, but we never got around to having that conversation.

.

I was ten when I left France behind.

Walking back from school, itchy woollen socks pulled up to rest just below my knees, I had clutched my thin leather satchel closer to my chest.

Three more years and World War Two would break out. But it was only one more year until I started my formal magical education. Hitler was rising in Germany, would only continue to rise to greater, more horrid heights as time passed on. The American Economy had crashed a few years ago, and we were all still feeling the repercussions of that.

Things were happening in the world just outside my door.

I had been in this new body for ten years. I'd gained scars, of course I had. There was a small nick in my left thumb from where I'd attempted to cut my own sandwiches with a knife that I wasn't quite skilled enough to hold yet, a burn up my right shin from where I hadn't gotten magical control of a fire quick enough. I hadn't dared to tell Mother about the injury, seeing as she was still very weary around my accidental magic.

Apparently she was okay with Father's controlled magic, but mine? Yeah, that left her on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

And Father.

Well, with the great depression running rampant around the world, Father had been going into work more often to keep us in the lifestyle we were accustomed to. I'd thought it would be hard, walking down the street and seeing the poverty that had whisked up the French nation, noticeably the working class. The Great Depression had well and truly sunk it's claws into the work force, and it wasn't uncommon to walk through the streets and see a family sat outside of a home they could no longer afford.

And yet...

It didn't seem real to me. It didn't touch me, Father only worked as hard as he did because he didn't want to touch what was in the Labelle vault. It wasn't a mountainous pile of gold, but it was enough to get us comfortably by for a few years. I admired him a bit more for that. Even though the depression hadn't dragged the wizarding world down to the muggle level, it had still managed to have an effect. So to know we would always have food on the table and a warm bed to sleep in was a comfort.

The people I walked by in the streets, they didn't seem real to me. This wasn't my world, and right now, the only person that registered as one hundred percent real was me. Even my parents weren't completely solid, always overlapping with the visage of the ones that came before them. Sometimes I wondered if I would ever start to feel like I really belonged here.

Only the magic that swell about inside of me, that raged like a hurricane but was as calm as a glacier kept me going, kept me anchored. Magic was amazing, and I could appreciate it so much more after a lifetime without it. It was nothing and everything at the same time, wonderful and mundane.

It was magic. There were few words to otherwise describe it.

I'd pushed open the door to the house, dropping my satchel at my feet, before the smell registered. It only took me another second to see my Father's bloodied hand reaching out from the threshold of the living room, his head twisted towards the kitchen and completely still. He wasn't breathing.

Considering everything, now that all of this had passed and I could stand aside and objectively observe things, I can safely say I was in shock in that moment. It was the only thing that fits.

Otherwise I'd have never have followed after the thin blood trail -my father's blood, dripping down from the knife that'd been plunged into his chest numerous times- to the murderer. He was still in the house. I had been able to hear my mother's choked sobs, a dainty hand pressed to her mouth in an attempt to muffle the noise.

The footsteps gave it away, heavy ill-timed things, clunking around on the hard wooden floors.

Heavy, big stride. Male. Panicked male.

Pushing open the kitchen door, I caught the man just in time to hear him scream at my mother, wanting to know where we kept the money. Father was in charge of the money. It was all on the top floor. The floor mother couldn't access. Already a cut as thin as a spider's thread had been traced across her face, a bead of blood drifting down to nestle in the hollow of her throat.

I really can't be held responsible for what happened next, at least, I don't feel like I can. Crime had sky rocketed with the depression. Poor people were desperate people, and that's what was going on in front of me. A desperate man, certainly a starving man, at the end of his rope. The only place to go was up.

Or, so one would think.

But murderers went down according church.

I still can't remember picking up the kitchen knife, still can't remember what drove me to bring it down on the man's unprotected back, my footsteps silent as I moved across the floor. I can remember the splash of crimson as blood sprayed across my shirt, the sharp clang of metal as he dropped his own weapon in shock. It was over in seconds, my father avenged and mother alive, if unconscious from the shock.

Blood was soaking into the thick woollen jumper I wore for school, staining the mulled grey a burgundy. The shirt beneath was start to stick to my chest, so without thinking much about it, I peeled the clothes off, removing everything once I'd thought about it.

I'd made my way upstairs, showering quietly and then dressing myself in something my comfortable for a December evening.

The sun was already setting, night was coming.

.

I remember that I sat by the kitchen door, just staring at my unconscious mother and the dead man for at least an hour. My head had been empty hollow of thoughts for a long while. But I couldn't remain in that state, such a thing was obvious. I had to decide on what I was going to do next.

Father was dead. No more money would be coming into this house. Mother knows the money was stashed on the third floor, where she can't actually get at it. She'll probably move back in with her parents, not wanting to spend any more time in a house where her husband had been murdered.

I'd paused at this point, frowning.

At what stage had I started to believe myself absent from my mother? While it was true that in my head we'd never been a working unit, that Benjamin and Odette Labelle had been my carers, the help that would make sure this childish body wouldn't fail in the early years, was it so easy to separate myself from this woman?

Yet, I had to look at this without emotions distorting my thoughts, to figure out what was best for the two of us, either as a unit or separately.

If we remained together in this house, exposure to the magical world would be restricted. I would have someone to still care for me. However, we would have no source of income. We would have to rely on the Labelle vault which would probably only stretch till I turned eighteen, maybe a year or two beyond that. Mother would still have to remarry, or find herself a job.

On the other hand, I could leave. Without me as baggage, Mother could return to her parents, enter a second marriage much easier than if she had a preteen hounding her every move. I could be free to move to England like I always wanted, find an orphanage to stay at until I went to Hogwarts. Then I could possibly rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron over summer.

I wouldn't have to worry about Mother becoming a target from Grindelwald's forces, because I wouldn't be there to link her to a witch. She'd have just as much a chance of surviving as any other muggle, instead of being brought to attention when Grindelwald took over France and looked into the student records.

Hissing, I nursed my forehead in my hands, the fat of my palms pressing into my eye sockets as my head throbbed in pain. Grindelwald was going to take over France. I didn't know how I knew at the time, it hadn't been mentioned in the books, but I knew with absolute surety that the next Dark Lord would have a foothold in France for at least half a year before his defeat.

That settled it. The woman who'd given birth to me was better off without me.

I'd repay her kindness for looking after me by seeing she got the best chance of survival I could give.

.

It took me a half hour to pack everything magical into Father's trunk, to shrink it with Father's wand. The Applewood didn't respond at all to me, and I think it was only pure desperation that got the magic through in the end. That trunk would not be getting unshrunk until I have my own wand, that much was evident.

I'd taken half the muggle money, leaving the rest beside my mother's still slumbering form. She looked so delicate, resting against the kitchen cupboards as she was.

And yet, no guilt really gnawed at my stomach lining for what I was doing, nothing made me want to stay.

It was better for the both of us, we both had a greater chance of survival away from one another. Snatching up the leaflet I'd taken from a muggle newspaper, I set off towards the floo.

The Night Ferry was a muggle transportation system between Paris and London, that was how I was going to get to England. It left from Gare du Nord in Paris and arrived in London Victoria Station. Having only opened two months ago, there had been plenty of places for me to sneak aboard.

Mayhap this had been my first truly ruthless decision, when I'd refused to allow my emotions to dictate my survival. I did not want to die at such a young age, I wanted to accomplish the tasks I never had in my previous life, which meant I could not risk dying yet. I could not be trapped in a home with my mother and grandparents, cut off from magic.

Beauxbatons had too many unknowns, the only certainty being that Grindelwald would eventually get to it. I couldn't risk that.

Certainly Hogwarts wasn't the children's soft play corner either, but the danger was lesser there, and Dumbledore was present there. With Dumbledore, Grindelwald would not approach the school. Which meant it was the one for me.

So, I flooed to Gare du Nord and took my first big step into the new world.

That moment was a changing point for me.

While it'd seemed like the easier road at the time, there had been a multitude of hidden potholes, of tacks and barbed wire waiting to pull me down. It would be a much harder path than I'd expected, but I would come out stronger for it.

Struggle builds character.

They just never said it was a good character.

* * *

**Coming up next;**

In my hurry to abandoned what would have surely become a duty of care, I had been reckless. I hadn't thought through my every step, hadn't considered the implications of arriving in England with nothing but a child's body and perishable rations.

Now, I wasn't so much as walking through the London Landscape as I was stumbling, dragging my exhausted starving body along with me. The financial climate of England wasn't exactly flying high either, no one wanted to spare anything for the merger orphan staggering through town.

**.**

**So, figured I'd put up the chapter I have before I disappear again for a bit, damning uni deadlines. **

**Tsume  
xxx**


	3. Subsist

**All or Nothing**

_**Subsist  
**__1\. To stay alive when you do not have much food or money  
__2\. To exist  
__3, To support one's self_

x

In my hurry to abandoned what would have surely become a duty of care, I had been reckless. I hadn't thought through my every step, hadn't considered the implications of arriving in England with nothing but a child's body and perishable rations.

Now, I wasn't so much as walking through the London Landscape as I was stumbling, dragging my exhausted starving body along with me. The financial climate of England wasn't exactly flying high either, no one wanted to spare anything for the merger orphan staggering through town. Already three orphanages had turned me away, the matron who answered the door insisting that they had no room at all, and that I should try another place.

I'd been in London a week, trudging, along trying to find shelter. My food had run out on day three. The headaches had started on day four, and now it felt like a blanket had been wrapped around my stomach and was being clenched tighter and tighter with every step I took.

I was cold, constantly. Were it not for the fact that Father's cloak had heating charms woven into it, I didn't doubt I would have frozen to death already, especially in my current state. I was cold all over. Logically I knew my body was going into starvation mode, but knowing that was in no way a help when I was unable to get my hands on any food. I'd stupidly put all of the money in the trunk and left the wand with my father.

I was never going to be so single-minded again. At the time, all I had cared about was getting out of there.

Now I know, if I'd just slowed down, I wouldn't have suffered as badly as I did. The soles of my boots were thankfully quite thick, and were able to put up with a great deal of abuse. They'd probably have holes in them by now had they been a more delicate pair. Not that they were really a focus point for me right now, I had bigger problems.

Pressing both my hands down against my stomach, I whimpered, trying to massage even just a small amount of the pain away. It didn't help, at all, but at least I felt like I was doing something.

My fingertips were numb to the cold by this point, sticking just out the hem of my father's cloak as I staggered along, sharp brown eyes scanning the multiple of shops along the road.

I had only two pieces of jewellery on me, one of which was the Labelle family ring that was resting on a thin silver chain on my neck. I'd had enough thought take it from my father's corpse, considering that the goblins had always asked for the ring whenever he went to bank. I wouldn't have been able to get into the family vault had I not. It was a shame I'd been unable to find the entrance to Diagon Alley, otherwise I'd have been able to withdraw some wizarding money and feed myself again. This also meant that I couldn't sell it, because I would certainly be needing it in the future.

Which left one other option.

I'd been holding onto the small golden chain that wrapped around my right wrist, hoping another solution would come about, or that I'd be at an orphanage by now.

Apparently not.

It was a baby bracelet, one that I'd had since I was a toddler, bought by my muggle grandparents. It was a pretty thing, and with my thin limbs I'd still been able to wear it even until this day.

But it'd be no good if I was dead.

I was well and surely in starvation mode now. On day four, my brain was working on a quarter of the sugar it actually needed, my body would be turning to cannibalism, eating up the muscles I needed to keep so that I wouldn't stop moving. Selling the bracelet for money or food was the only option, even if it burned at me inside to know that I wouldn't be getting a fair trade.

Right now all I cared about was survival.

.

Mouth dry, I smacked my chapped lips against one another, well aware of the fact the woman at the small corner store café was blatantly staring at me. Stood on my tiptoes, I stared over the counter, eyeing up the selection of breads that were behind the glass display.

Before I'd gone in, I'm made sure my hair was at least plaited back from my face, so that I didn't complete the image of a filthy street urchin. Not that the dirty thick cloak helped.

"Soup please?" I asked, holding up the bracelet I'd managed to shimmy off of my wrist. For but a second, the woman's face crumpled, softening from the stern lines and frowns that'd made it up a second before. Her rainwater blue eyes take in the red marks on my forearm from where I'd forcibly removed the bracelet, an understanding smile on her face.

"You'd probably be better off at the pawn shop sweetie."

Shaking my head, I bit my lip, teeth breaking through skin with ease and I grimaced.

"No, I need food. Please let me trade for zome soup?"

Before hand, I'd not spoken enough words for my accent to really kick in. But having listen to, and spoken French for nothing but a decade, my English came with a delightful accent to it now, the waitresses eyes popping wide slightly before she gave a small smile.

"I suppose I can accept that then."

Pushing forwards the small golden bracelet, I accepted the tray of soup and bread -two more pieces of bread than I should have been given- that I got in exchange. I noted the few coins that were partially hidden behind the bowl, away from the sight of the other worker at the counter. I didn't acknowledge it in any way shape or form.

To thank her would draw attention to it, to bring others attention to it. There was a reason it was hidden behind the bowl after all.

I stumbled over to a small chair, dropping the food onto the table with shaking arms and allowing my form to collapse into the iron framework that made up the seat. It felt good to just stop and rest.

Snatching up the three bread buns, I thrust them into the deep pockets of my cloak, provisions for later. Plucking up the worn metal spoon, I began to slowly, ever so slowly, drain the tin bowl of its watery broth. It wasn't the best soup I'd ever had, far from it.

But in that moment, given the circumstances, it was the greatest thing I'd ever eaten. I had to force myself not to eat too much, to go slowly because otherwise I wouldn't be able to stomach it, would end up throwing up all of the food that I'd just taken in.

Leek and potato soup had never tasted so good.

For hours I sat there, nestled in the shaded corner of the little café, hunched over my soup and steadily draining the bowl until the steam had long since subsided and the lack of heat had left the bowl cold.

But even ice cold, it was still food, food that I hadn't had for four days. It was substance, substance that could fuel my body instead of the muscles I needed.

No more starving for me for another day or two.

.

I stayed in the café until closing time. Curled up on the small stool, the waitress that'd exchanged my bracelet even brought me over a small cup of awful tasting tea.

But hey, it was the thought that counted I guess. I'd managed to make it to London, that was the important part right now, it was best for my long term survival to be here.

A stone in my stomach advised against me leaving the café, but they were closing up now, locking away the cashier of money, cleaning up the tables.

Shaking the sleep from my feet as I stood up, I adjusted the thick cloak that hung around my shoulders, pulling the front closed. I really didn't want to lose the heat I'd only just managed to coax back into my fingers, the skin was no longer paper pale, only just having returned to the light tan that was my usual complexion.

I should have listened to my stomach really, I was stupid not to.

But at the time, I just felt like it was the apprehension of having to leave a warm, safe place and go back out into the struggle that was living on the streets.

I hadn't known that it was my magic trying to coax me free from my hazardous plan, that it wasn't a smart idea at all.

For twenty minutes I walked through London, my stomach now uncomfortably full of soup, with three bread buns squirreled away in my pockets for when things got tough later on. My arm felt lighter now, uncomfortable without the metal band protecting my inner wrist.

After days of hunger, this was starting to seem more and more real. It wasn't dream, it wasn't a life or a world I was just going to cruise on by in like I had my previous one.

One where I'd had the safety net of parents and extended family, without the swords of war hanging over my head. This was my life now, this was dangerous.

And I needed to survive.

In that life, I'd never known hunger, never known the way it clawed at your stomach, the way it sent spiking migraines up to the top of your forehead, as if multiple stakes were slowly being wedge under the skin, the metal pokers red hot. Every movement I made seemed as if I were wading through syrup, limbs so exhausted that every step was a struggle.

That was hunger, a kind that I'd never known in the previous life. This was real.

And this was the world I needed to learn to live, learn to thrive in.

"Oi!"

Pausing, I swayed slightly at the sudden lack of motion, hand shooting out to steady myself on the wall I'd been walking by. Two males, perhaps a few years older than me were stood off to a side, one holding a knife. Father's dead body flashed before my eyes, the body of his murderer crumpling to the floor beneath my stab.

Distantly, I was aware that I was curled up on the pavement, the two boys pawing through my pockets, extracting the bread that I'd been so very careful with, the bread I'd been determined to save.

"Non, il est à moi."

All three of us paused for a second while I sorted through my muddled thoughts, trying to figure out what I'd just said. I'd become so used to speaking French that it appeared to have become my default language. How awful.

"Mine," I finally settled on, reaching out and snatching one of the bread buns back, stuffing the hard bap between my teeth.

A fist met the side of my face and that was how I lost five hours of my life, which I spent unconscious on the pavement of London.

.

By my second week in England, I got so desperate that I managed to make my second big stupid mistake of this lifetime.

A stray dog had passed me by, and sensing weakness, we had both lunged for one another. We hit the floor in a tangle of too long, too thin limbs, matted fur and hair flying in all directions.

Blunt force trauma to the brain, a cracked skull killed the mutt as I slammed it down onto the hard cobble stone road again and again until the hind legs stopped twitching.

Despite my weakened, state, my magic responded to my desperate needs, came back just as strong, roaring with the same power that'd pushed me forwards whenever I'd had need of it. The burning desire to live, to not have it all end right here, dying nameless and dreamless, just another orphan falling to hunger on the winter London streets.

I cooked the carcass over an open flame in a back alley, nowhere near the most hygienic of places, but after a fortnight on the streets, I fit right in with that description.

More than once I wished I'd never left France, more than once I wished that everything was just a fairytale dream and I was going to wake up in a hospital bed through some miracle or another.

And yet each time the thought crossed my mind, something deep inside me protested, nestled somewhere behind my core and warming my thoughts when the world around me refused to do so. I should have expected it to be diseased, it was a mutt after all, living on the streets.

It was pure stupidity of me to eat it's tainted flesh, even if it had been cooked.

But I was past the point of reasoning then, as panicked and hungry as I was.

I fell into a fever that gripped my mind tight and refused to let go, claiming control of all of my limbs, one that sent my temperature soaring so high that not even slathering my face with snow cooled me down.

I certainly lost my connect with the conscious world, only snippets reached me from where I was thrashing in the dark recesses of my mind. Some of it seemed real, but some of it was quite clearly feverish dreams that illness had cooked up in my brain to serve up.

Eyes the colour of freshly spilt blood narrowing, shimmering with deep anger and singing the symphonies of revolution.

Soft arms gathering beneath my legs and resting upon my upper back, blessedly cool cloth pressing against my side.

Tortured screams of the desperate and the hopeless, begging and pleading for mercy.

A soft voice, echoing through the air and rumbling through my own body.

"…found her in a ba…arly desperate…ur everywhe…"

Brilliant flashes of colour, full and bright against the background of rust and dirt.

"..gone…path …immortality…"

My throat was torn and weathered, it hurt, as if it were both sore and burning at the same time.

And there was a boy, with golden brown hair and the most amazing blue eyes, sapphire dipped in obsidian. Like chips of ice in the night.

.

Then, I woke up.

* * *

**Coming up next;**

It wasn't until years later that I learnt the reason why I'd woke from delirious fever to see Tom Riddle's cherubic face hovering above my own, which was no doubt smeared in dirt, pale and slick with sweat from fever.

In comparison, he looked like an angel from the old tales, one that had come down to grace the grubby peasant with his presence.

It would be a good decade or two before he would mention that I had caught his interest because my magic was fighting whatever illness had struck me down.

He'd been able to feel it.

* * *

**So, no Tom in this one. He'll be showing up in the next one I promise. Anyway, this was shorter than I wanted it to be, by about 2,000 words, but I just ran out of things to talk about. Hopefully the next chapter will be longer. **

**Tsume  
xxx**


	4. Endure

**All or Nothing**

**_Endure  
_**_1\. To suffer something difficult or unpleasant in a patient way over a long period.  
2\. To last for a long time_

x

Between fever dreams, I was half conscious, only able to register the feel of a cool piece of cloth on my brow, or the paper thin sheets that were bunched up around my ankles. There was noise, but it was muted, as if I'd been submerged underwater and left there. Or maybe cotton had grown in my ears seeing as they hadn't been in use for god knows how many days.

Every so often I'd managed to summon up the will to open my sleep encrusted eyes, staring up at the blank grey ceiling in confusion. My brain struggled, spluttered over what it was seeing. Couldn't seem to accept the fact that after so long I was now once again living with a roof over my head.

No matter how hard I tried I couldn't quite recall how I'd ended up here, how I'd found my way into this strange warm place. My body didn't hurt any more, it just felt tired, exhausted. But in a better way than when I'd been starving. The kind of tired that stems from illness.

I couldn't stay awake for too long, I was quick to fall asleep again. Slight naps between each bout of wakefulness.

Though at one point I remember waking up and seeing a very beautiful boy standing by my bedside. His face was a mask of cool indifference, though his dark eyes seemed to burn with dark curiosity.

Understandably, I wasn't able to make sense of the mixed feelings my stomach gave me at that moment.

One part told me to get close, to never stray too far away because otherwise I'd leave the eye of the storm and get caught up in the mayhem. Being here was the safest place to be.

While the other part of me waged war, insisted that this was a predator and I was very much prey before him, it told all of my limbs to freeze up and to draw as little attention as possible. Something I wasn't able to do, considering that he was staring quite blatantly at me.

I tried to speak, but only French seemed to want to leave my mouth, so instead I shut my eyes and went back to sleep.

.

It wasn't until years later that I learnt the reason why I'd woke from delirious fever to see Tom Riddle's cherubic face hovering above my own, which was no doubt smeared in dirt, pale and slick with feverish sweat. In comparison, he looked like an angel from the old tales, one that had come down to grace the grubby peasant with his presence.

It would be a good decade or two before he would mention that I had caught his interest because my magic was fighting whatever illness had struck me down.

He'd been able to feel it. Whirling about me, attempting to wrap me up in a cocoon of protection, to ensure that I lived another day, that I would continue to survive as was my wish.

.

I woke up on my fifth day in the orphanage. A policeman had found me sweating out in a back alley and carried me all the way here. Gratitude throbbed in my heart for this unnamed man that had probably saved my life, at the same time dismay and shame burnt tears into the back of my eyes, leaving them dry.

I had almost died. This second life and I'd nearly succumb to illness at the age of ten.

It was a horrible thought and made my throat clench with bone deep panic. If that had have happened, I would've only made it through half of the life I'd lived last time.

I stared down at my hands, watching long fingers gather the thicker blanket I'd obviously been given when my fever died down. In this childhood I'd been taught how to play violin, it was stored in my trunk, nestled carefully away and ready to be pulled out as soon as I could access it.

Drumming my fingers against the flesh of my thigh, I grimaced at the clear lack of weight. I'd been thin before, now I was most certainly underweight.

Throwing the blankets off my bed, I glanced down at the dishwater white nightgown someone had dressed me in, looking like it'd been ripped right from the end of the 1800s. Hideous.

Panic surged through me for a second, but then I noticed my father's cloak hung up on the chair by my bedside, my trusty boots sat at the leg of the wood, two eager puppies waiting by master's bedside for walkies.

The rest of my clothes were gone though, I noticed as one hand came up to paw at the thin golden ring under my nightgown. It was spelled against notice when it came to muggles, had been for hundreds of years. Thieves couldn't take what they couldn't see after all.

Instead, a set of drab looking grey clothes were resting on the small wooden desk, neatly folded and quite clearly meant for me.

Standing up, I took hold of the jacket, flicking it free from its folds with a snap movement of my wrist, noting the way my joints protested at such a sharp action. It was a sombre grey blazer, all precise lines and itchy material. While it was most certainly worn, it was clean, and I couldn't ask for more given the state my own clothing had been in from a fortnight on the streets.

I picked up the rest of the clothes, slipping on the thick woollen socks I'd been given. The idea of wearing shoes indoors at what was clearly meant to be my new home was foreign to me, so I didn't bother to put my boots on.

Instead, I ventured out cautiously into the hall, noting that it was still quite early in the morning, early enough that no other children seemed to be up just yet. I made my way down the corridors, taking note of the numbers on the doors as I passed by. I appeared to be in number 19, the second to last door on the corridor. It went all the way down to 1, and judging by the names tagged under each number, they all belonged to girls.

Stopping at the last door that was both numberless and unnamed, I slowly pushed it open, relieved to see a shower inside. I'd been unsure if the muggles were using them as often as wizards yet, but apparently I'd lucked out. Locking the door, I quickly stripped off, ducking into the cubical and shivering at the cool winter air.

I nearly screamed when the ice cold water hit my body. I'd forgotten that the muggles didn't have heating charms on the pipes and thus, heated water. I had no other option but to clench my teeth, soaping up my hands and washing my long, dirty brown hair, until the filth was striped away to reveal the golden blonde beneath. After that, I took the time to carefully wash my entire body, making sure to hit up every inch of skin. I revelled in being clean after spending so much time in the grime of London's streets. After all that I'd put it through, I wasn't surprised that my body adjusted to the bitter cold water as quickly as it did, accepting the fact I'd just have to put up with this for a bit.

.

Eventually, I skipped out of the bathroom, now completely clean and wearing the outfit that had been laid out for me. It was a boring looking thing, grey blazer, grey skirt and off white blouse. But it was clean and that was all I wanted right now. I dropped off the nightgown and the used pair of underwear in the laundry hamper that was sat off to the corner in the bathroom, noting that it was already half full.

Morbidly, I wondered if I'd have to do chores here, I hadn't had any at home, instead my parents had done everything. The only thing I'd helped out with was the cooking, because I liked doing that. Cooking was an art, and though not one that I was a master at, or even gifted, it was one I had great practice with. I wasn't a half bad cook, certainly better than any other average ten year old, that much I knew for sure. Having nearly ten years of experience from a past life made sure of it.

I approached the stairs with caution, logic dictating that the ground floor would be the one where all the meeting and greeting would be housed. I moved cautiously along the steps, one hand nestled on the banister on the off chance my shaky legs gave out on me. That wouldn't be a surprise.

While evidently someone had been feeding me while I was unconscious -otherwise my energy levels would mean I was unable to leave the bed- I didn't want to put too great an expectation on my body, put too much trust in these faceless carers.

The rest of the orphanage kept up the dowdy theme, clean but nowhere as cheerful as it could be. As a children's home should be. My house in France had been traditional, but it had been warm, filled to the brim with family love.

.

I found the kitchen reasonably fast, stopping in surprise at the sight of two young women working diligently upon the stoves they stood before. Both paused to take a look at me, kick-starting my brain once again.

"Good morning," I began cautiously, creeping forwards in the way a small mammal would approach food of questionable origin. Guarded, but hopeful.

"Hello, you must be the new girl that officer Edwin brought in."

The younger of the two, who hadn't spoken, blushed ever so slightly. Okay, so my saviour was clearly a gentleman if she was crushing on him. Good to know.

"Oui. I am Colette Labelle, it iz nice to meet you."

I gave a little curtsey in my skirt, watching as both women gave a delighted smile.

"Oh, so polite. But your accent, I've never heard anything like it."

That stumped me for a moment. Who hadn't heard of the French accent before? Then I remembered that the TV was nowhere near as widespread as my mind believed it to be, and these girl didn't appear to have the finances to go out and travel to France on a whim.

"I am French," I offered quietly, shuffling a bit closer and stopping by the stove. The bland scent of porridge thankfully didn't send my stomach into fits of rebellion, so hopefully I'd be able to keep this down.

"French? What were you doing in England?"

"I came over 'ere when Papa was murdered for money."

Both women winced and I fought to keep the smug smile off my face. Discussion over.

"Why don't you go take a seat Colette? We'll bring you a bowl of porridge over."

Nodding I turned on heel, selecting one of the tables that was set out of the way, seating myself on the side that let me see the only door that led towards the hallway. And so, my first day in this purgatory began.

.

I was half hunched over my cooling bowl of porridge, the clumsy whispers of curious children echoing around the room, when there was a slight lull in the conversation. Not enough for any other child to notice, but the workers stopped gossiping, looking nervously between one another. I caught the action out of the corner of my eye, and it was because I was looking to a side, watching them, that I missed the source of the noise dip.

Until there was a ringing clang of a tin metal tray meeting the tattered wood of the tabletop.

My gaze snapped up to look at the boy that was steadily seating himself across from me, instantly recognising him as the one I'd seen between my bouts of fever. His face was one from the aristocracy, that much was clear. He didn't belong here, among these grubby children with their cuts and bruises. He stood out like a sore thumb, features refined. To every other, he was the epitome of grace. Only my eyes, the eyes of an adult that had spent far too much time around children, could see the lingering traces of childhood awkwardness, that clung to him as if it were the a cloak made form fine mist. Not noticeable enough to be substantial, unless one was really looking for it.

That was, reliving in a way.

I wouldn't have been able to cope with a child naturally being so perfect. My pride wouldn't have allowed it. Sable hair and dark eyes, his looks were the typical English gentleman.

But why this boy had approached me, I was instantly suspicious. He wasn't like the other children. Which possibly made him a threat.

My stomach told me he was a threat, and I had always trusted my stomach. It had never led me wrong so far. Yet, it wasn't telling me to flee. It was just warning me, a premonition of things to come if I were careless.

"Good morning," I offered, deliberately enunciating my words to make them as blindingly clear as possible. If it happened to bring out the distinct tinge of French in my words, then so be it.

As I'd half expected but hoped otherwise, the boy's eyes sharpened, head tilting curiously to a side as he took in a mouthful of porridge.

"Good morning," was his unenthusiastic reply. No questions. Strange, children usually couldn't help themselves, curious little beasties they were.

"My name is Colette Anne Labelle. If you 'aven't already guessed, I am new." For the second time today I stumbled slightly over my 'h', unable to correctly pronounce them as I would have wanted. Clearly living a decade in France does some damage after all.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle. I was born here." Oh.

Of all the orphanages to end up in, this was where the police officer brought me? No wonder I was feeling so damn skittish around this boy. I should have gathered who he was earlier. The prettiest kid in the whole orphanage, dark hair and dark eyes, everyone content to avoid him like the plague? Yeah, there was no way he wasn't Tom Riddle now that I thought about it.

"Nice to meet you." My reply was quiet as I finished off the last of my porridge, picking up the apple I'd been supplied with. Each orphan had gotten one, though most had eaten theirs first thing. I planned on snacking on my own later, still only just able to stomach all the porridge I'd eaten.

"What are you?" Riddle asked, eyes never leaving me as I shuffled back on the bench, preparing to stand up.

I paused, weighing up my options. I could always deny knowing anything, but if he ever found out that I'd kept such an important secret from him, I'd be dead meat.

Exactly what I didn't want.

So there was really only one option, and it came with benefits too. If I told him about the wizarding world, for the next year or so, I'd be his only source of information. Which meant he'd have to keep me around for a while. And in that time, I needed to become something that could not be replaced. I needed to make myself a skill set to accomplish that goal.

Now, with a reasonable plan in mind, I turned back to look at the dark haired boy.

"It iz a zecret," I began, continuing quickly when his eyes flashed with rage, "I can not talk about it in front of zem."

Now, I gestured to the all the other children, who were trying and failing to hide their fascinated horror as they watched the two of us interact.

"I can tell you if we find zomewhere they can not 'ear. The muggles are not zuppose to know."

"Muggles," Riddle repeated, as if testing the word out on his tongue and finding it very pleasant a flavour indeed, "fine. Room 27. You better not be lying." I'd be lying if I said my heart hadn't stuttered slightly at that.

Because this boy was dangerous.

.

After breakfast, the stern faced, middle-aged woman who just had to be Mrs Cole, took me off to one side to explain the basics. The ground floor was for social interaction. Girls rooms on the first floor, boys on the second. Curfew was sunset, we were expected to be in our rooms by eight in the evening, ready for bed. I nodded along, only half taking in the information, enough to get me by.

My head was spinning with significantly more important thoughts. Like what exactly I was going to tell Tom Riddle about the magical world.

Obviously I had to say something, but how much could I speak about without giving it away? Maybe it would be best to stick with what I know from this lifetime, to leave out anything that I had learnt from my previous life. To just regurgitate all the information I'd gathered from France.

Perhaps that was for the best, I didn't really know too much about the English wizarding world, not from personal experience anyway. He couldn't get me to tell him what I didn't know, that much was clear.

Pausing, I pulled at the soft skin on my lip with my front teeth, peeling one of the upper layers back as I chewed.

When was Riddle's birthday anyway? I could remember that it was in December, but other than that, the information was escaping me. I was born in the summer of 1926, were we in the same schooling year? Was I a year above or behind? I wasn't sure, but I'd figure it out soon enough I guess.

"Do you understand?"

Looking back up at Mrs Cole, I nodded, rocking back on my heels as I did so.

"I do. May I be excused?"

Mrs Cole gave a sharp nod and I took off in a calm walk down the hallway. My eyes scanned each and every point of interest I passed by, and I tripped the third girl to purposely bump into my arm. She hit the floor with a gasp of pain, but by that point I was already halfway up the stairs to the first floor. I continued upwards after that, arriving at the second floor with little fanfare now.

Instead, I was allowed to move onwards with my thumbs hooked into the pockets of my blazer, neither of the two boys that I passed by getting in my way. My limbs and torso shook with the effort of moving around so much since I'd just woken up. But I was determined to get this out of the way. I did not want to end up like those two little orphans that Riddle had… I grimaced, realized I wasn't quite sure what Riddle had done to two fellow orphans, I just knew that something had happened. And it hadn't been good.

Brushing my bangs to a side, I stopped before door number 27, sucking in a deep breath as I did so. Then, I knocked.

.

Riddle's room was as spartan as my own, with just an iron framework bed, matching desk and chair set, along with a large old wardrobe. Riddle himself was sat calmly up to the desk, slowly placing down the pen he'd been writing with and turning to look at me with a carefully blank face.

"I am allowed in, yes?"

He nodded and I stepped in, closing the door quietly, leaving me stood awkwardly, not sure if I should just seat myself on the boy's bed. I'm pretty sure that it would be impolite, but my limbs were shaking. Decision made, I carefully seated myself at the very foot of the bed, calmly clasping my hands together and letting them rest in my lap.

"Well?" Riddle asked, turning fully around to stare quite blatantly at me. He was taller by about three inches and that aided him when it came to interrogation.

"Well, we are magical, a wizard and a witch, to be exact."

Riddle's eyes lit up and he leant forwards, expression excited.

"I always knew I was special," he whispered, so quietly that I wasn't quite sure if I'd caught it, or I had just imagined it.

"How do you know, are there more of us? Tell the truth!" He slapped a hand down on the desk at the same time as a wave of magic slammed into me, like the stormy ocean waves.

I flinched back, clutching at my head and fighting off the magic tinged order as best I could.

"Do not use mind magic on me like zat," I growled, short nails digging small crescents into the sides of my temple. The alien magic that'd been touching, attempting to mould, my own retreated, albeit slowly.

Instead Riddle stared back at me, the cold edge of the universe reflected in his eyes, the harsh bitter conditions all inside those dark irises.

"Tell the truth." He repeated just as quietly, but with far more danger in his voice.

"There iz a magical community, 'idden away from ze Muggles. I grew up in ze one in France, but I left for England. The one in England, I do not know where it iz. Only that zhe school comes for all the children on zeir eleventh birthday." I tried not to scowlat how thick my accent was coming out. I hadn't had much conversation in English, and only then with French nationals who'd also learnt the language. It'd been so long since I spoke English that my French had managed to spill over, leaving a distorted accent behind as I once again tried to separate them.

Riddle was still staring, eyes burning with an intensity that I could not even begin to understand. No doubt trying to accept the fact that there was a magical world out there, a world he belonged to, that would be coming for him on his eleventh birthday. That he was special, that he didn't belong here in this grey monotone.

I couldn't blame him, to really. While this place was clean, that seemed to be the only decent thing about it. There was no warmth, certainly it wasn't a place that children should be raised, that much was obvious. It was an orphanage, and in this time, those were only pit stops for children to pass through before they hopefully became productive members of society.

It didn't encourage dreams, it crushed them.

"Tell me more."

.

Sometimes I wonder if that was the point that shackled me forever to Tom. He was the first important character from the series that I ran into, so perhaps it wasn't too strange that I imprinted on him the same way a duckling does with the first moving thing it sees. Looking to him all the time, following him around; were I a rodent, he was the merry piper.

But perhaps that was also the moment where Tom decided that I was his.

Not in the way a little boy makes a friend, or a man takes a wife. Merlin no. It was more in the way a particular possessive child might decide upon their favourite toy, one they guard jealously from all others. The kind of child that thinks if they were unable to forever have their favourite toy, they'd rather ruining it than allow others to touch it with their grubby hands.

Quite the stressful situation to be in, I assure you.

* * *

**Coming up next;**

The dreams came every night.

The content was always different, they tended to leak, to bleed over not only into one another, but into reality as well.

Sometimes I'd be sat on the worn dining table bench and an older male teen that certainly didn't belong to the orphanage would walk by.

Riddle's eyes would flash a startling red for half a heartbeat.

The boy with golden brown hair and chipped night ice eyes would be curled up on my bed.

And then the images would be gone, wisps in the wind, leaving me standing in the middle of nowhere with my arm half raised and awkwardly reaching out to grasp their incorporeal form.

I didn't understand what was going on at that point in time, there had been nothing like it in the Harry Potter books, and that scared me.

It still does sometimes.

* * *

**Right, so, Tom. Thoughts?**

**Tsume  
xxx**


	5. Oneiromancy

**All or Nothing**

**_Oneiromancy  
_**_ through the interpretation of dreams  
interpretation of dreams in order to tell the future_

x

The dreams came every night.

The content was always different, they tended to leak, to bleed over not only into one another, but into reality as well.

Sometimes I'd be sat on the worn dining table bench and an older male teen that certainly didn't belong to the orphanage would walk by.

Riddle's eyes would flash a startling red for half a heartbeat.

The boy with golden brown hair and chipped night ice eyes would be curled up on my bed.

And then the images would be gone, wisps in the wind, leaving me standing in the middle of nowhere with my arm half raised and awkwardly reaching out to grasp their incorporeal form.

I didn't understand what was going on at that point in time, there had been nothing like it in the Harry Potter books, and that scared me.

It still does sometimes.

.

Living at an orphanage was a odd thing indeed. It seemed to both drag and speed right on by. Time was a strange beast, a man made concept that left us only counting the hours gone by, the days what were left to come, instead of living in the present. Time was a funny thing. Could I have stopped things from happened, now that I had idea of the big impact situations that would shape history? Few would probably heed my words, and even fewer would dare to make any changes in the grand scheme of things. So I didn't bother to try. By knowing what was coming, I would be able to twist the situation so that I profited from it.

And by profited, I of course mean, that I got out of the situation alive. That was the aim of this game for now.

Was it any way to live? Not really. But I could still enjoy the small things in life, I just had to make sure everything was running smoothly towards my ultimate goal, that anything I did didn't endanger my existence.

That's why I didn't speak out as much as I should have done that first day with Riddle. I knew what he would become, I knew what he would be capable of. It wasn't until I was laid in bed the next night, listening to the early January rain snarling angrily against the thin glass panels, that a thought occurred to me.

That no matter what Riddle was capable of in the future, he was not capable of that now. And while that meant I should most certainly not be making an enemy of him, I didn't have to roll over and show him my belly in every instance either. Though after a previous lifetime of always keeping my head down in the face of conflict, it was a hard pattern to break.

When it became clear that I'd fallen in with Riddle, all the other orphans stayed far, far away from me. It wasn't a surprise really, Riddle hadn't exactly gone out of his way to make himself welcomed, quite the opposite really, if I remember correctly.

What did surprise me was how, unbothered I was by such a fact. I just didn't seem to care when the other orphans stared at me, whispered harsh speculations beneath their breaths. When it came down to it, I knew that out of everyone in this orphanage it was Riddle that would become the biggest danger, that'd have the most impact in the world at large. He was powerful because he was magical.

And because of this, so was I.

I had magic, so Riddle held me to a higher standard than what he did the rest of those that surrounded him. The other orphans feared me for my interaction with Riddle, and I can't really lie about it.

It was a head rush.

Certainly it wasn't difficult to see why so many people had gone mad with power before. I tried to tamper it, to lock down on the rush that flooded my system, but there was the occasional time when I'd pass by an orphan who'd jump in fright, and I wasn't able to stop the satisfaction that curled in my stomach. I felt powerful, in control, for the first time in my life. And while part of me knew that soon enough I'd be hitting Hogwarts where I'd no longer be the biggest fish in the pond, -or well, the second biggest fish- I was still going to enjoy it while I could.

That wasn't to say that everything came easy to me for the next year. No. While there were advantages to being so close to Riddle, there were the down sides as well.

Riddle held me to a higher level of expectations than the muggles, and as such, I was expected to perform to a higher level.

Riddle had come to associate us as a collective, him as the leader and I as the, well, not quite a follower, but not quite a friend either. Maybe an advisor? I knew more of the wizarding world than he did, and while he kept pumping me for information, there was a difference between learning all you could of a world and then growing up in that world. I had the experience, so when it came to the Wizarding World, he acknowledged that I had a better understanding of the place.

That didn't mean he had to listen to anything I said, it just meant I was there for information and advice when he needed it. Like a royal advisor, I didn't need to be listened to, but there was the occasional moment he would heed my advice. As such, I was under Riddle's protection, not a subject, but not an equal-never as an equal. Somewhere between perhaps, closer to the former than the latter.

And right now, I was fine with that.

Ever since February, when the day had grown long enough, the orphanage had been letting us outside, into the streets of London as long as we went in groups and were back an hour before sundown. Before my arrival, Riddle had never had a reason to venture out into the outside world, nor anyone willing to go with him. When not under the threat of bodily harm that was.

Until now though.

Now he had both a reason to go out, and someone to drag along with him.

So every Sunday when the orphanage let us run free, Riddle would mount an expedition into the capital city of England in an attempt to location the English Wizard's shopping district. I'd already told him that it was behind a pub, but I wasn't sure of the name. It was entirely possible that the Leaky Cauldron wasn't called the same thing in this time, I remember pub names changing almost every decade back in my old life.

Regardless, it was now May, and we'd had no success at all. With the measly amount of money Riddle and I had managed to scrape together, we'd bought a map of London, marking off all the streets we'd checked so far, leaving us to see all the ones we'd yet to scout out. And I'd rather find Diagon soon, because I still had my shrunken trunk to resize, the one with all my belongings in. My fingers ached to once again hold my violin, to feel the strings beneath my fingers and listen to the tune it could produce. I prayed I hadn't gotten rusty in the time I'd not been able to play.

.

Pulling on the worn leather shoes that Mrs Cole had begrudgingly handed over, I brushed down the pleated grey skirt that was part of the usual orphanage uniform, turning back to look over at Riddle. He was in a similar get up, the knee length grey shorts that were typical of the 30's, a plain white shirt that matched my blouse. I hated the orphanage uniform, it gave no sense of individuality, instead just grouping us together as a collective, a gathering of orphans. Riddle looked good in it, though I had a sinking suspicion he'd look good in anything he wore, one of those enviable people that made an outfit look good and not the other way around.

"Where are ve up to on ze map?"

Filling the silence that usually persisted around our forms was normally a job that fell on my shoulders. Riddle wasn't really one to talk to unless he had something to say, and that often made for uncomfortable walks whenever we were making our way through London. Even then I had to be careful regarding the conversational topic, to not start a useless discussion because otherwise his estimations of me would go down and I would become moody over his blatant disregard for whatever I was saying. We didn't mesh perfectly together, but time would soon sort out that woe, or so I hoped.

Thankfully though, Riddle was the one to always keep hold of the map, so it was a valid question that I'd just asked.

"Across the Thames now," came Riddle's short, almost snappy reply, rolling up the parchment in question and pocketing a pencil as he did so.

Normally, we managed to cover several streets every expedition, but so far, we'd still had no luck at all.

It was frustrating, especially since after every failure Riddle would look back at me with assessing eyes, dark and suspicious. Like he believed I was playing with him and the place didn't exist at all. But then he'd be reminded that for all of my smarts -not at all natural like his but because I'd studied at a higher level in a past life- I had never been a very good liar.

Whenever Mrs Cole asked what we'd been up to, deep sated -rightful- mistrust in her eyes and a frown on her face, it would always be Riddle that answered. He lied as smoothly as he spoke the truth, which for a ten year old, was quite astounding.

Drumming my fingers against my thigh, I pushed off from the wall as Riddle decided he was ready to face the day, turning on his heels and heading for the door.

I hadn't even passed the threshold when it hit, sending me crashing to my knees with both hands pressed temples. My head was throbbing, painful and each movement seemed to follow each quiver of my heartbeat, which was beginning to beat uncomfortably fast.

I barely heard Riddle order me to get up; the words passed through my head but I only half-heartedly registered them.

I was looking at a man with wiry ginger hair, sat back in my room -we weren't on the girl's floor, why were we in my room?- and he was in the most atrocious neon yellow suit. Truly it was a hideous sight to bear witness to, and I could feel my nose scrunching up the longer I looked at him. The bed was comfortable beneath my body, the mattress soft and gentle on my skin.

Though I didn't understand why my body was so sore.

I hadn't even gone out into London yet; ever since the days had started growing longer Riddle had been pushing to stay out as long as there was light in the sky. Even longer sometimes.

So why did I ache all over?

"…just fell over…didn't do nothing!... having another vision….What did you see Colette…"

When did Tom's voice get so high?

.

I woke up on in bed. My head was blisteringly painful, as if my skull were about three times too small in comparison to my brain. Whimpering slightly at the sensation, I let my eyes slide open and was greeted with the blinding shade of yellow right off the bat.

"Oh Merlin, eet iz real." Somewhere in the room, I heard Riddle snort ever so slightly under his breath, no doubt finding amusement in my reaction to the colourful invasion.

Grimacing, I slowly sat up, rubbing at my eyes and praying when I opened them, the xanthous blot in our otherwise grey orphanage would be gone. But no dice, it remained, topped by a familiar head of wild ginger hair and a puzzled, but rather bemused smile.

"Miss Labelle my dear, are you okay?"

My pout deepened as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, taking in the man in my room that was calmly sat upon my desk chair.

Riddle had positioned himself at the foot of my bed, in such a way that he could pay attention to the stranger or flee instantly. Which explain why the door was still open, despite the fact I had a good feeling I knew what this was about. My head was still hurting, but the pain was slowly starting to die down now, and regardless of if it were notable, I wasn't about to show any weakness. Living on the streets for a few weeks taught you that much.

"I zink so."

The man hummed and if Riddle's impatience could take on a physical manifestation, than I was reasonably certain that it'd be crushing everyone within the orphanage beneath its weight.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Albus Dumbledore, deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witch Craft and Wizardry." And then, a letter was held out before me.

Almost reverently, I accepted it, feeling my shoulders straighten out a bit. I'd made it. I'd been born in France, a France that was to be taken over during WWII, maybe even by Grindelwald, but I'd made it to England and to Hogwarts. I was safe. Safe as I possibly could be for the next few years.

Pulling open the thick envelope, I removed the parchment from inside, scanning the words, though they all remained similar to what I could remember of the Hogwarts letter from the book series.

"Where's mine."

Riddle's voice was cool as ice and felt like a forceful dunk in a winter's lake.

My head snapped up to look at him, noting the folded arms and eyes that were dark with cold fury.

"Hogwarts letters are sent out to all children that will be eleven before the new school term, I am to assume you turn eleven later than September Mr Riddle?"

They'd already met. Oh dear, that couldn't possibly be good at all.

Pulling at the thin skin that was the upper layer of my lips, I eyed the two warily. Neither seemed to have made a good impression upon the other while I'd been unconscious. Which I really needed to ask about.

"But Tom can come with me to ze shopping district, no? I zhall not feel safe without my friend."

Dumbledore's bright blue eyes slide back over to me and a warm smile slowly began to cross his face.

"Of course Miss Labelle. In fact, I shall take you as soon as we discuss the reason as to why I found you unconscious."

"I already said I didn't do anything!" Riddle snarled and I shuffled down the bed, closer to him.

While his expression was fierce, I'd known Riddle longer than I had Dumbledore. And Dumbledore was a man deep in the history of the rising Dark Lord. Those ties to Grindelwald he'd had, regardless of if they'd been severed, left me more than willing to avoid siding with him. For now.

"I zo not know what 'as 'appened zir."

"I have a few theories Miss Labelle, did you perhaps hear or see anything while you were unconscious?"

Grimacing slightly, I scratched at my thigh, for lack of anything else to do. There was only one reason that Riddle was being so quiet; he wanted to know what had happened too, and so far, Dumbledore had given out more information to me than he had Riddle.

It wasn't the first time he'd used me like this; not that I minded too much. A girl, sweet talking girl with an exotic accent tended to get more given to her from the orphanage workers than what Riddle did. They'd all been warned off him so far, but found my accent too blindsiding to really pay too much attention to the time I spent with 'the devil child'.

Not that, by their standards, I wasn't one myself.

"I 'eard a voice. Eet sounded much like Tom, but eet waz different."

Dumbledore's brow crinkled, but he hummed lightly and nodded.

"I do believe Miss Labelle, you appear to have some form of Seer magic. The ability to divine future events," he expanded upon the confusion both Tom and I exhibited.

I wasn't sure about my dark haired companion, but my own mind was racing. Was this why I had been compelled to leave France so strongly? Had this supposed talent been warning me that only death awaited had I stayed? It made sense, the amount of civilian deaths during WWII was high, and I doubted it'd be much different if Grindelwald marched upon my home country.

In this life… I had an inborn, natural skill to aid my survival. This was, this was perfect. A early warning system of what could pose a problem,

I could- I could make it past twenty.

"I am a Zeer. A Zeer." The words tumbled out of my mouth, tongue feeling strangle numb as I absorbed the idea and felt it settle in my chest with a sudden surety.

"So she can see the future then?" There was a distinctively greedy undertone to Riddle's words, and we both noticed it.

Dumbledore's eyebrows creased the skin above his nose, while my own heart fluttered. It might not be helpful right now, but already Riddle recognised the potential.

Voldemort would too. This was it, this was my ticket to protection under Voldemort's reign of terror. I could provide him an advantage in the future, and hopefully, my gift would let me know if he ever planned to turn on me, thus giving me time to escape.

"The ways of Seers, I'm afraid, are quite beyond me. It is a trait that few find themselves born with, and it develops in different ways. Some can train their talent, others find themselves spontaneously hit with brief visions or prophecies. Where Miss Labelle falls upon this scale, I am unsure." Vibrant blue eyes, knowing far much more than I was comfortable with, turned back to focus upon my still form.

"It's a good thing I arrived today. I imagine that the past hour has been rather traumatic?"

"Ever zo slightly."

Dumbledore hummed before standing up and once again reminding me off his exceedingly offensive suit. "Well then, I believe we have an Alley to go shopping at?"

Riddle's eyes went dark.

For the vast majority of the time, he managed to play the role of a normal boy quite well.

And then, there were times, just like this moment, in which the facade would crack. In which the surface would stop rippling, the water would lay still and allow the smallest glimpse of the dark depth that lay below. There was a darkness to Tom Riddle that few got to see, that even fewer thought to catch. It was impossible to see all the way down, to fully map all the canyons and trenches, and the sheer vastness of it all left one hesitant to even take a step forwards, so scared that it'd swallow you whole.

It was in these short episodes that I truly wondered what I had gotten myself into, wondered if I could honestly handle this. But then, that suspension between my lives would hit me, that moment of knowing nothing at all as I floated in a space as empty as I had felt.

Which would bring me back, would reason that I had already started paddling in the ocean that was Tom Riddle's life, and now that I was already wet, there was little point in me getting out. Before now, it seemed that only I had been the one with a true inkling as to how deep Tom Riddle's true self ran.

Where the other children passed over him with fear in their eyes as they scuttled out of his way, as the orphanage staff frowned and murmured quietly about the boy with the face of an angel but the luck of the devil, only I really, could guess at what danger lurked beneath the surface.

Until now, until Dumbledore's sharp eyes took in everything about Tom Riddle, with tension heavy in the air.

It was going to be a long seven years.

.

Diagon Alley was not in any way enjoyable.

Dumbledore and Riddle seemed to be in a constant battle of wills. Well, that was a bit of a stretch.

It was more like Riddle was holding a grudge with Dumbledore for not letting him into Hogwarts and Dumbledore was disapproving of Riddle as a whole. Not unsurprisingly, but certainly it would make my life more difficult.

No doubt I was going to be watched just for associating with him, and then when Riddle started getting into the Dark Arts, well, I was a terrible liar after all.

Every stop was wrought with tension, the bank -in which Dumbledore withdrew the necessary funds from the Hogwarts scholarship -orphan- vault, which I didn't bother to correct him on. The bookstore was difficult, because Riddle obviously wanted to devour everything in there but Dumbledore stuck to the list, excluding an introductory book regarding Seer magics.

Had it been possible to bottle up envy, to stance the emotion away in a jar and use it as a substitute for electricity, I could have powered England for a century with how much Riddle was giving out when I got my wand. I feel that it was only Dumbledore's harsh warning about any underaged magic outside of Hogwarts bringing the Ministry down on our heads that stopped Riddle from ambushing me for my wand when we got back.

I did feel a bit bad, because I could remember in my previous life being jealous of the people older than me. Of watching them get to play the older video games, buy lottery tickets and learn to drive and drink alcohol. So yeah, I felt pretty bad.

Still though, it hadn't stopped the pleasure that raced through me when I got my wand. A pine and Phoenix feather wand 13 3/4 inches. It was mine, had sung in my hand and called out to my magic.

Mine.

It wasn't until I'd returned to the orphanage, laid in bed and staring up at the ceiling, that I realized I'd forgotten to get my trunk unshrunk. To even take it with my to the Alley.

After a moment's thought on the matter, I decided I could wait until Hogwarts, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

* * *

**Coming up next;**

_'Gryffindor?_'

The hat, from where it was sat perched upon my head like a worn leather vulture, let a small humming sound echo throughout my mind, ignorant of all the curious faces that stared back at me.

'_Is that not the home of the morally righteous, of all that is good and gold?_'

.

* * *

**I've had a point made in a previous chapter that Colette seem a little too much like Merope. That bit with the bracelet was intentionally done; where Merope sold her necklace to ensure her survival until Tom's birth, Colette was focused solely on her own survival, even leaving her mother for it. Colette is selfish, focused on her own life and willing to cut ties with her own family to ensure it. **

**Tom and Colette will not have a 'healthy' relationship. They'll use and abuse one another -one more than the other- but they'll stick. I want to look into a story that's not all sunshine and roses.**

**Tsume  
xxx**


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